


This Moment So Overdue

by gypsydancergirl (hauntedlittledoll)



Series: Goin' 'bout Ninety-nine 'Verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Random Musical References for the Win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/gypsydancergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robins are shaped by those that came before, and in turn will shape those that follow.  That’s just how families work—even in Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Moment So Overdue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiragecko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiragecko/gifts).



> Title taken from the song “Skyfall” by Adele.
> 
> Kiragecko likes age-switch ‘verses, and we were brainstorming good reasons for ten-year-old Robins not Dick or Dami. I got a little bit carried away … and this ‘verse shall henceforth be known as the Goin’ ‘bout Ninety-nine ‘Verse after the song “Summertime Sadness” by Lana Del Rey.

_Little Robin Redbreast_

_Sat upon a tree,_

_Up went the Pussy-Cat,_

_And down went he;_

The nursery rhyme played in his head with annoying repetition as Damian stood on the balcony within arm’s reach of a robins’ nest.  He’d been fascinated by the birds since their recent arrival, and spent his free time observing the strange avian behaviours.

They weren’t particularly bright creatures.  Even with human neighbors, the birds had foolishly persisted in building their nest near the balcony.  Damian could easily have flipped the nest from the tree at any time.

The birdsong was particularly obnoxious in the early morning when Damian was attempting to meditate, but Damian had promised his father that he would not kill under the Batman’s roof.

_Technically_ , the birds and their nest were outside those parameters, but Damian was reasonably certain that it was the principle of the thing with Father rather than the letter of Mother’s law.  The way of things in Gotham was still most confusing, but for now, Damian chose to err on the side of caution.

And this morning, his patience had been rewarded with two tiny eggs.

Such a curious thing really to have such blue eggs come from the red-breasted bird.  Damian understood the science behind the colouring, but reasonable logic would dictate some correlation between birds and their eggs.

“Come, Master Damian.  It is time to leave the birds to their breakfast and attend to your own.”

Damian scowled at the interruption.  “Their worms hold both more appeal and more nutritional value than the slop that you call food, Pennyworth.”  This was a lie, but Damian had taken a stand long before he had actually tasted Pennyworth’s cooking and he could not afford to back down now.

The butler raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “I shall speak with the gardener then; perhaps something could be arranged more to your tastes, Master Damian.”

“Tt,” was Damian’s only response to the obvious bluff as he surveyed the porridge grimly.  It smelled heavenly.  “Has Father returned yet, Pennyworth?”

“Master Bruce is currently resting from his trip, but he did ask that you join him for lunch in the dining room at one o’clock.”

“Very well.”  Damian liberated the fruit from his tray and returned to the balcony for further surveillance.  Providing the ten year old remained still and quiet, the robins seemed content to consider the ten year old boy just another gargoyle.

It was not as if Damian had anything better to do.

He maintained his watch until Pennyworth returned to summon him for the midday meal, and stored away the observed behaviour of the birds for further reflection at a later time.

Observation had served Damian well so far in handling his father’s intense scrutiny.  For example, Father was most receptive to childlike gestures and any resemblance to Mother would result in immediate suspicion.

Damian could do nothing about the shape of his eyes or the point of his chin, but he was careful to keep his voice clear of the soft wheedling tone that Mother used to persuade and took further care to avoid her use of possessive endearments.

Distance was good.  Outright annoyance was even better.  Insults and tantrums may raise the Batman’s ire, but at least his Father looked him in the eye when the man was enraged instead of pretending not to see Damian.

Father was awaiting his presence in the dining room.  There was a stiffness to the man’s movements that implied broken ribs and bruising not quite hidden by the man’s hairline.  His fingers were heavily bandaged as they reached for the cutlery.  Very likely caused by yet another explosion.

Damian ignored the phantom pain of struggling organs long-since replaced.

It had been two months already since Father had tracked them down after the first explosion courtesy of the British Prime Minister.  The Batman had grimly waited out Damian’s surgery at Mother’s side.  Talia had been overjoyed until Bruce announced his intention to return to Gotham with Damian.  Then there had been a great deal of yelling about someone named Jezebel Jett and further ultimatums.

It was almost something of a relief to be deposited in Gotham under the quiet care of Alfred Pennyworth for the remainder of his recovery.  Mother had proceeded to travel around the world blowing things up, while Father chased after her in an attempt to limit the collateral damage of her explosions.

Explosions, Damian was learning, happened to be a frequent occurrence in the life of Batman, and there had been no further mention of Jezebel Jett in communications with either parent.

Both checked in nightly; Damian wasn’t sure whether he should feel pleased by the attention or perhaps offended.

“Alfred tells me that you’ve found an extracurricular activity that suits you while I’ve been away,” his Father commented in yet another clumsy effort at parenting.

Damian scowled at the butler.  Pennyworth obviously wasn’t referring to Damian’s penchant for bird watching.  “I have abided by the terms of our agreement,” he defended, attacking his sandwich with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

His father ignored the assault on hapless comestibles and grunted companionably.  “I appreciate the extra effort, Damian … as does the Commissioner.”

“Tt,” Damian looked away.  “That is only because he remains unaware of my involvement in dispatching the Spook.”  For which Damian is not sorry, no matter how Father tensed at the mere reminder.  It had been several hours before Father got around to extracting Damian’s promise of nonlethal measures, and by taking the Spook out of the equation permanently, Damian had saved the lives of both the Mayor and the idiot undercover cop.

“You didn’t know any better,” and the ten year old wondered if that defense was meant to convince Damian or Father, himself.  “And you are making up for it now.”

_If that was how Father wanted to perceive it …_

Damian was simply preventing the rogues from taking advantage of Father’s divided attention.  Batman must remain a suitably threatening presence in Gotham or the city would be lost.  Damian was really only carrying out his Father’s work while the man was distracted by Mother’s game.

As would be expected of Ibn al Xu’ffasch.

“This use of your training is a brave step, Damian,” the man persisted, abandoning his meal.  “You clearly demonstrate a skill in combat that would be invaluable in the fight for justice.”

Damian hesitated.  “You and Mother have decided then?”

Bruce Wayne regarded him levelly—more bat than billionaire even now.  “Your mother offered you a choice on the boat, Damian, and I have persuaded Talia not to rescind her offer.  The choice is yours alone, Damian.”

“I could choose her,” Damian warned.  He had already learned that his first choice would be impossible.  His parents would never see eye-to-eye on anything.  “She trained me for two years.”  And provided all he could ask for in the eight years before that.

“You could,” his father acknowledged.  “I understand the food is better,” the man had the audacity to tease Damian in front of the clearly-offended butler.  “And the retirement package has some excellent perks.  Functional immortality.  The world for a footstool.”

“Tt,” Damian murmured softly, “your counter-offer would need to be most impressive indeed.”

“Alfred,” Father returned with satisfaction as if the butler were some sort of ultimate trump card.  Damian waited, and after a moment his father relented.  “As well as the Cave, a billion dollar company, and a really cool car … but trust me, son.  Alfred is all you will ever need.”

“I will keep that in mind, Father,” Damian snorted as the butler refilled his glass.  Then he cautiously looked up through his eyelashes.  “You will train me then, Father, as your successor?”

“Partner,” the man corrected.

“That would be acceptable,” Damian decided after some thought.  Mother spoke often of his inheritance, but given her use of the Lazarus Pit … in what future would he ever obtain it?  Damian was a perpetual prince in the House of al Ghul.  Perhaps in Gotham, his true destiny was laid.  “You will not regret your decision, Father.”

“Of course not,” Father agreed, reaching for the dessert tray while Pennyworth’s back was turned.  It didn’t work.  The butler simply moved it out of reach without comment, and both adults pretended the exchange hadn’t occurred.  “You will need a name … unless you like the Batboy appellation that some of Gordon’s rookies suggested.”

Damian sneered openly and took a tart for himself as _his_ plate was empty.  “Decidedly not.”

Batboy was certainly out of the question.  The Justice League was so … _literal_ when it came to their vague pseudonyms.  Wonder Woman.  Superman.  Green Arrow.  Flash.

No imagination whatsoever.

Damian doubted that “Kid Assassin” would go over particularly well amongst his Father’s preferred social circle.  He leaned back in his seat and considered the names of both heroes and villains that he knew.  Most were in reference to their powers, appearance, and/or weapon of choice.  As Damian had no powers and fully expected his appearance to change drastically by adulthood, he would need to be more creative.

The foolishness of naming oneself for a solitary weapon didn’t even bear consideration.  Maintaining one’s shtick should never come at the cost of efficacy in battle.

His father was explaining the symbolism of bats again as if anyone in this room had not heard the story a thousand times, and Damian cast about his meager lifespan for ideas in that vein.  It would need to be something meaningful, but something that wasn’t obviously connected to his training and accomplishments under Mother.

Damian had precious few moments unrelated to his role in Grandfather’s empire.

The butler was humming as he cleared away the plates, and Damian scowled as he recognized the ditty that had been in his head all morning.  _Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree_ … indeed, Pennyworth would recognize it.

_… Up went the Pussy-Cat and down went he …_

Damian blinked.  Robin Redbreast … the bloody swath on an otherwise unremarkable bird, and the old story of how it was obtained in purgatory by ministering to the perpetually lost, but mostly the damnable rhyme of his brief childhood and a pair of remarkably stubborn birds outside his window.

“Robin,” he announced, cutting his Father off before the man could continue pontificating upon the supernatural mythos surrounding bats and how such superstition assisted in creating terror of his alter ego.

“Robin?” his father repeated.

The butler ceased the obnoxious tune with a decidedly smug expression of disinterest and offered Damian another tart as Father considered Damian’s choice.  Clearly, Pennyworth would be an exasperation regardless of whether Damian classified the man as friend or foe.

He took the treat anyway.  He was rather fond of them.

“Batman and Robin,” his father continued, still testing Damian’s choice with some skepticism.  Damian wasn’t worried.  If Pennyworth approved, Father would fall in line.

Perhaps Damian was beginning to understand the way things worked in Gotham after all.

_Down came Pussy-Cat,_

_Away Robin ran,_

_Says little Robin Redbreast—_

_Catch me if you can._

* * *

“Nightwing, stay with the Penguin.  Miss …” the Batman cleared his throat, and Steph ducked her head to hide the grin.

Fortunately for the fourteen year old blonde, the Batman was just paranoid enough to keep from calling her out in front of the bad guys.  After the media circus earlier this week … Stephanie Brown could quite easily lead to Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne.

_My, how the guano crumbles_ , she cackled quietly to herself … or perhaps not so quietly.  _Or ya know, to myself …_

“You are perhaps the most uncouth individual in all of Gotham,” Nightwing informed her with blatant disgust.

Steph stuck her tongue out at the older vigilante.

“Enough.”

Steph jumped.  Damian didn’t so much as flinch.  She was going to have to learn that trick if she was going to be Robin.  Although, she had to talk the big guy into it first.

“You … stay here.  You … come with me.”

So this was her big chance.

Steph reluctantly followed her childhood hero down the dark alley.  Jerk or not, Nightwing’s familiar presence seemed downright comforting now that Steph would have to face Bat!dad’s wrath all on her own.

“I presume this suit is your own handiwork, Miss Brown.”

“Obviously,” she stuck her chin out stubbornly.  _Why not?  It works for Damian._

“It would hardly offer suitable protection while crime-fighting,” the Bat criticized.  “You would die very quickly.”

“It’s a sweater, ski-mask, and gardening gloves,” Steph shot back.  “It was to make a point, not declare war on the Penguin.  That was incidental.”

“Your point being?”  Clearly, the Batman wasn’t one to be distracted by chatter.

Steph crossed her arms irritably.  “That anyone could be Robin … that I could be Robin.”

“It’s not that easy, Stephanie.”

She stomped her foot.  Steph wasn’t proud of it, but she did.  “It wasn’t easy to put my dad behind bars now, was it?  I _helped_ you!”

“You were part of the problem.”

“Well, I made a pretty good solution too, didn’t I?” Steph tossed her head angrily.  “Cluemaster is off the streets, and I’m the one that helped you put him in jail.  I could help you again, Batman.  I could be Robin, and face it, B …”  Steph glanced back at the mouth of the alley where Nightwing loitered.  “… the two of you could use a Robin.”

“Nightwing spent his entire childhood in training for that role.  He was taught by some of the greatest martial artists alive, and I trust no one else as I do Nightwing.”

That was positively verbose—no, that was practically a speech coming from the taciturn Bat.  Steph’s eyes narrowed at the nigh-imperceptible flicker of expression.  Was the Batman mocking her?

“ _Nightwing_ is lousy at keeping his identity secret,” she retorted.  “And one of these days, he’s going to get stuck in a vent because he’s too stubborn to admit that he won’t fit.”

There was a definite twitch at the corner of his mouth this time.  Steph suspected that one such incident had already happened.  “No one is perfect,” Batman allowed graciously as if he hadn’t been a total jerk about mistakes when Damian was Robin … which was probably how they wound up in this whole mess to begin with.

“Hah!” Steph snorted.  “You two fight all the time which is _stupid_ because you have a lot in common when you’re not antagonizing each other over who’s in charge in which city.  FYI: Bludhaven is Nightwing’s city.  You gave it to him; no take-backs.”

The Batman blinked.  Stephanie could just tell.  It’s in the chin.

“You probably never hang out for fun.  It’s all costumes and justice all the time which is no good, because both of you want to be Batman.”  Steph gave the vigilante a dark look.  “There can only be one Batman.”

Of all the things to actually land a hit and wound the Dark Knight’s pride; he looked downright sulky now. “Why?”

“Because the world isn’t ready for two,” she huffed since they were getting off topic.  “So there should be a Batman and a Nightwing, but there should be a Robin too so that you don’t kill each other or scare everybody … and I should be that Robin,” Steph finished triumphantly.

Batman crossed his arms: “You really think that you know my son better than I do after a week?”

“We were hostages together,” Steph returned, “and cuffed together … for forty-eight hours.  I tried to hit him with a brick.  I’m pretty sure we’re married by the tabloid’s version of common law or whatever.”  Probably helped along by Damian visiting her both in and out of the hospital to criticize and complain.  Then she had snuck into his apartment to return the favor, and _she_ hadn’t been caught by the paparazzi.

_Take that, ninja!Nightwing._

“He’s stuck-up, cranky, and ninja-quiet when he’s up to no good,” Steph continued.  “His apartment _smells_ , and he’s never seen **The Princess Bride**.”  Stephanie sniffed imperiously.  “Also, I suspect he might be a cat-person which is _clearly_ genetic or learned behavior or _something_ , but whatever.”

“I’ll make sure to buy him a dog,” the Batman offered magnanimously.

Stephanie rolled her eyes.  If she was a little braver, she would have kicked him, but there was a thin line between being brave like Robin and being stupid.  Kicking Batman was stupid.  “For being the world’s greatest detective, you sure are dumb sometimes.  That’s something else he gets from you, ya know?”

“So I’ve heard,” the Batman acknowledged, “repeatedly.”

“You ever think that’s because it’s true?”  Stephanie put her hands on her hips, trying to channel her mother’s _you-will-do-as-I-say-now-young-lady_ powers of persuasion.  “Look, I want to be Robin, and you can’t stop me.  So I can be Robin in my sweater with a handful of gymnastic medals … or I can be Robin with a real uniform and trained by Nightwing and Batman.”

The Batman suddenly loomed over her, his voice dropping to its most gravelly depths: “Is that an ultimatum, Miss Brown?”

Stephanie swallowed.  “Yes?”  After a moment, she remembered her manners.  “Please?”

After an equally long moment, the Batman sighed, “A wise woman once told me that every arrogant schoolboy deserved a little sister just as smart.”

“Was she one of your teachers?” Stephanie asked … respectfully even, because while it mostly sounded like a non sequitur, it also sounded just a little bit like a _yes_.

“Some socialite’s elderly aunt, actually.”  The Batman sounded amused.  “She caught me drinking champagne when I was your age.  She accused me of being a drunk.  We had an exchange of words.  She was just as drunk, but she gave as good as she got culminating in that particular pearl of wisdom.”

Steph fidgeted hopefully.

Batman sighed heavily again.  “As an orphan, I did not appreciate the sentiment.  I took the opportunity to throw up in her handbag and was promptly grounded for the rest of my short life.  You can see how well that turned out.”

Steph tried and failed to stifle a giggle.  “So am I the little sister or the old lady in this metaphor?”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” the Batman looked her up and down, before taking a knee and bringing himself down to her level.  “Nightwing chose to move out.  It was his idea.  Not mine.”

“Are you _four_?” Stephanie asked incredulously.  Heroes of Gotham, and she babysit toddlers with more maturity.

The Batman ignored her, which was probably for the best because Steph was losing track of the thin line between being Robin and being stupid.  “You would require a great deal of training.  I am a very busy man; delegation is sometimes necessary.”

Steph rocked back and forth on her heels in barely-contained excitement.  “Nightwing would want it that way,” she agreed, feigning nonchalance.  “He can’t have a second-rate replacement after all.”

“I think that—between the two of us—we could persuade Nightwing to abandon his apparently ‘smelly’ apartment,” the Batman suggested, and that was downright sneaky and underhanded and a little bit genius.

Stephanie approved whole-heartedly.

“Of course—it’s for Nightwing’s own good really.”

“Glad we had this talk, Robin.”

_Robin._

Stephanie managed to hold in the scream of joy until after the Batman did his whole dramatic exit thing.  Then she squeaked, spun around, and flew out of the alley, tackling Nightwing in the process.  “I’m _Robin_ , ‘Wing!  _Robin!”_

* * *

Jason swore as he rolled out of the net and bit mat … again.

“Language!” floated across the Cave, although the Batman doesn’t even turn around.

Dick hauled himself up overhead, perching on the moving trapeze casually as he watched Jason pick himself up again.  “You know, if you think you’re gonna fall, you’re gonna fall, Jay.”

“Ha-ha,” he grumbled, stepping off the ladder and immediately jumping for the loosely swinging bar.  “#?(%!^& gravity likes you better.”

_“Language!”_

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Dick pointed out.  “Or I would be the one with matburn.”  Dick gracefully sailed back, now hanging by his knees from the bar.  Jason grit his teeth and executed a roll.  Dick reached out of nowhere; grasping the younger boy’s wrists automatically in a grip like iron as Jason psyched himself up for the triple again.

Swinging was easy.  Even the jumps were a piece of cake, and after a month of training, Jason was just as good at the floor routines as Dick … but there’s a difference between flipping off a wall or over an opponent and _flipping multiple times in midair for no good reason._

Psyched _out_ , Jason didn’t take the leap.

“C’mon, Jason,” Dick coaxed.  “You can do it.”

“Of course, I can do it,” Jason snapped as he passed another opportunity by.  “Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.  Normal people don’t practice deliberately aiming their skulls at asphalt every night.”

“But we’re not normal,” Dick sang, still swinging back and forth as comfortably as if he were stationary on the ground.  “We’re _Robin_ …”

“ _Flippin’_ Robin,” Jason grimaced, steeling his nerves and taking the shot.

Three perfect rotations, and Jason still missed the blasted bar.  He hit the netting at a bad angle, springing over the edge automatically and allowing the rapidly approaching mat to knock the air out of him for the seventh time that night.  There is no graceful way to free oneself from the net.

Jason closed his eyes and gave it a second for the world to settle.  To think Dick’s family did this at full height for a _living_.

He could hear Dick clambering overhead briefly before the other boy landed with a soft thump a few feet away.  At least he doesn’t hover anymore—Jason’s been trying to impress street etiquette upon the other teen since they both landed at Ma Gunn’s.

“New plan,” Jason muttered.  “You do the flips, I’ll take out the bad guys.  Go teamwork.”

Dick laughed.  Bruce just told them to try it again.

Back into the rigging, the pair went.  Dick a lifelong expert and Jason with the grim familiarity that came from falling off and climbing back up again and again.

Jason has a perfectly acceptable double somersault, but _no, Robin’s a little show-off and of course a triple is the logical next step._   If Bruce sets his sight on Dick’s quadruple, Jason’s going to apprentice himself to Superman instead.  Not even Damian can do the quadruple somersault, and Bruce’s biological son has been genetically perfected by Talia al Ghul.

“Gotcha, Jaybird,” Dick grinned down at him.

Jason relaxed, shooting off a quick “#?(% off, _Dickie-bird_ ” as he let go.  He was honestly expecting to end up on his ass again, so it was a bit of a shock when the trapeze didn’t slip through his fingers.  He almost fumbled it, but chalk and instinct won out in the end.

As soon as the platform was under his feet again, Jason gave a loud whoop, breaking out into a little victory dance that was interrupted by Dick crashing into him with enough force to knock them both off the narrow platform and into the netting.

“Language,” Bruce scolded Jason as he approached.

Jason cradled his skull which had been rattled by a collision with Dick’s chin and untangled himself from his foster brother.  “Sorry, boss.”  Which he wasn’t, but hey, playing nice with the Batman when he dictated Jason’s training schedule was just common sense.

“Let me see,” Bruce sighed, reeling them both in simultaneously.  He kept one hand on both of them while tilting Dick’s head back as he examined the older boy’s jaw, and then ran a hand through Jason’s hair to analyze the impressive knot already rising.

Jason tilted his head against the man’s grip, because the frown on Bruce’s face was major overkill for an accidental knock on the head.  It didn’t work though; Bruce nudged him back into place without letting go of Jason’s hair.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

It took a moment for Jason to catch on, and then it hit him with all the force of a flailing acrobat.  _His roots_.  It had been a couple weeks, and the red must be showing.  Of course Bruce wouldn’t like that—they’re supposed to be _the same_.

It was part of the deal that he and Dick had struck with Batman.  Two boys.  One Robin.

Jason squirmed, and when that didn’t work, elbowed his way free.  “It’s dyed.  I was avoiding some people, and, well, red hair kinda draws attention.  Don’t get your pants in a twist, B; _I’ll fix it_.”  He’d forgotten—living soft at the Manor and all—but it was fixable.  Bruce had more money than he knew what to do with and hair dye is cheap enough.

Really, of all the things Jason was doing to be more like Dick and vice versa, hair colour was the least of their worries, but now Bruce looked like someone had kicked him.  Jason tried to frantically rewind the last few minutes and figure out where it’d gone wrong the second time, but it was already too late.

Bruce withdrew, eyes already averted over their heads.  “Have Alfred help you dye it,” he instructed distantly.  “And stop swearing—Robin doesn’t swear.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dick whispered as Bruce disappeared in the direction of the lockers.  “You know that’s not true … right, Jay?” Dick jostled his shoulder worriedly.  “You’ve heard Damian when he’s working on the cars.  He swears in like five languages … and … _and I swear!”_

Only because he’s picking it up from Jason—goodie two shoes.

“It wasn’t about the swearing,” Jason muttered.  “Reminded him of _her_ ,” he jerked his chin in the direction of the Memorial Case.  Stephanie had blonde hair, not red, but it shone like a beacon in the grim-dark streets of Gotham.  “Distinct.  Identifiable.”

Batman couldn’t afford that.

“So we’ll fix it,” Dick promised, because he didn’t understand.  Circus-brat wasn’t Gotham born and bred.  Dick hadn’t ever been saved by the pretty blonde or snuck into her funeral along with half the city.  The other teen hadn’t watched the news coverage, heard a hero named, or seen firsthand the statement that the Joker had made with the second Robin’s death. 

For the acrobat, being Robin was still 50/50 helping people and bringing down Tony Zucco.

Being Robin was about the legacy for Jason—mostly, it was about Bruce and Damian.  It was about Stephanie and Gotham and not letting the Joker _win_.

Robin couldn’t afford that.

* * *

Tim climbed to the very top of the fire escape.  This was his favorite place to take pictures.  The various members of the Bat family liked to take a running leap off the precinct roof just across the street which made the fire escape the best spot in the city to get aerial shots of the Birds and Bats in flight.

Tonight, however, Tim had a different purpose in mind.

The new Batman was overly cautious, prone to a more noticeable analysis of his surroundings instead of quiet omnipotence.  He would inspect the nearby buildings, and undoubtedly spot Tim’s calling card.

A scarf where no scarf had a right to be.

Tim pulled himself onto the roof, and carefully stepped out on the ledge, slipping down to his hands and knees as he crawled out over Gotham’s streets.  He took care to keep at least one limb wrapped fully around the gargoyle’s overly long neck until the end when he had to trust his sense of balance in order to remove his scarf.

Slipping was not the desired outcome.

Fortunately, timing is an excellent trait of superheroes world-wide and a gauntleted hand grasped Tim’s hood before he could actually fall from his perch.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Gotham passed below in a rush of wind, and managed to keep from utterly embarrassing himself by gripping pathetically at the Batman’s armor mid-flight.  Just to be safe, he kept them shut even after the vigilante landed on the police department’s roof and returned the ten year old to solid ground.

After a long moment, the gauntlet closed over his hood again and Tim felt the cement disappear under his feet.  Bracing himself for another flight, he was unprepared for the swift shake he received instead.

Tim’s eyes popped open, and he focused abruptly on the narrowed lenses of the cowl.  “Please don’t do that, Mr. Wayne, or I’m gonna throw up.”

Batman dropped him instead.

Tim wobbled, but after a moment decided that his knees would hold him.  “Sorry!  Sorry, that was rude, Mr. uh-Batman.”

“What did you just say?” the caped figure hissed, dropping to one knee and somehow looking all the more intimidating for the concession.

Tim swallowed and unclenched his fingers from the scarf.  “I’m Timothy Drake, and I’m ten years old, just like you were when you started out as Robin … and I figured out who you are ‘cause Dick Grayson is the only person in Gotham capable of the quadruple somersault.”

_Which really, in conjunction with Stephanie Brown’s compromised identity as Bruce Wayne’s_ last _ward, should tip off anyone with half a brain …_

“Tt,” is the sound made as Batman’s teeth click together, and that’s a really obvious tell to someone as deeply entrenched as Tim in all matters of the Bat.  “Contrary to Miss Vale’s popular theory, Bruce Wayne is currently wining and dining a socialite of dubious intent at the French restaurant on Grant Avenue,” Batman informed him stiffly.

_Which, yes, Tim had noticed that.  He was somewhat uncomfortably familiar with Bruce Wayne’s unpredictable behaviour as of late, but he couldn’t exactly tell Miss Little that the billionaire avoiding her appointments wasn’t the real Bruce Wayne._

He could tell Batman though, and did.  “And I never said you were Bruce Wayne either,” Tim pointed out politely.  “You’re just filling in, right, _Damian_?”

That at least was not a suggestion made by anyone else in the online forums devoted to figuring out the Bat’s secret identity.  Understandable really, considering Damian Wayne age ten had been just starting out as Robin a good decade after the Batman first appeared—

Gravity gave up its fight with Bat and boy as Tim was once more whisked from a rooftop perch and yanked headlong towards a more secure location—this time the top of Wayne enterprises.

“How do you know that?” Batman demanded of him as Tim waited for his inner organs to return to a functional alignment again.  He had adapted much faster this time.

Tim smiled.  “I know who all of you are:  Bruce Wayne, Batman and now missing.  Damian Wayne, Robin, Nightwing, and now Batman.”  Tim reeled off the names easily having devoted many hours to the study of Gotham’s vigilante.  “Stephanie Brown, Robin and now Red Hood.  Dick Grayson, Robin and current Nightwing.  Barbara Gordon, former Batgirl.  Cassandra Wayne, Spoiler and current Batgirl.”

“You’re missing someone,” Batman issued shortly, and Tim scowled, kicking at the pavement.

“I think Jason Todd might be Red Robin, but I can’t prove it,” he admitted sullenly.  “And I can’t figure out what he was doing for two years beforehand.”

“A mystery for another day,” Batman frowned.  “Who are you?”

“I’m Tim Drake,” he repeated.  “I want to help you.”

Feeling ever so slightly more secure, Tim took a step back from the new Dark Knight and unzipped his hoodie for better access to his camera.  “I take pictures, and I read the news stories,” he explained.  “I put things together.  I’m good at that.”

Batman deftly repossessed the camera, flicking through the memory card briefly before tucking it into his utility belt.  Tim expected that though.

“Not gonna help,” he shook his head solemnly.  “I’ve got back-ups—a whole year’s worth—and you have a no-kill policy.”

“There’s always blackmail and intimidation,” Damian suggested, not even trying for the Bat-voice anymore.

Tim gave an eloquent look, and just because Damian was the son of Batman and likely to need it spelled out: “I’m only ten years old.  There’s nothing for you to blackmail me over.”

Damian raised an eyebrow.

Tim pushed ahead secure in his innocence.  “That leaves bribery, Mr. Wayne,” he suggested politely—his mother had raised him to be polite after all.

The Batman sighed and crossed his arms impatiently.  Yet another gesture foreign to the Batman that Gotham knew; he really was quite bad at this.  “And what would a ten year old like yourself want in exchange for such a valuable secret?”

“I want to be Robin.”

For a moment, Gotham seemed unnaturally quiet.  Then a horn sounded below, a burst of profanity echoed from the sidewalk, and everything returned to the normal nighttime sounds of a city at war.

“Impossible,” Damian declared.  “You have had absolutely no training whatsoever.”

“I’ll learn,” Tim countered quietly.  “Batman needs a Robin.  You especially.”

That seemed to offend the man; Damian’s response was decidedly snide.  “In the last fifteen minutes, you’ve fallen off a gargoyle and nearly vomited on my boots over a simple swing.”

“I’ll get better,” Tim promised.  “It wasn’t so bad the second time.”  That was a lie, but Tim figured anything that didn’t kill you would make you stronger.

_Hopefully, that motto applies to the Bat Family too._

“Look,” Tim bargained.  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.  Think it over, do a background check, have a vote, whatever.”

“Tt,” Damian scoffed, “and waste my valuable time searching you out and saving you all over again tomorrow night?”

Tim smiled sweetly.  “Nah.  I’ll find you.”

And in the meantime, Tim would take the stairs.


End file.
